The Traveler

"Word of you being on the road has touched my ears.”

Deep are her eyes drawing him in to where his mouth is working in telling her, “I am after a trickster. A man who has taken what does not belong to him.”

The frown worn on her face adds to the deep colored bags under her eyes that has him hearing her sighing as if gaining strength in having hope that love is still a thing. Turning from him and after giving a gentle touch to her mule, she says to him, “Instead of my mule, the man you describe, took me.” The sadness heard in her trembling voice drips like a cold day and unsure of what to say, she saves him by saying, “He talked about you as I lie there broken. Said you are nothing to him, and then he went on saying I should be grateful to be in his company.” She stops then, a visible shudder quaking her body. Immediately is the wrap of sorrow and knowing that no amount of time will erase this, casual in his want of pulling her out from such darkness, he asks, “This fair, tell me about it.”

After offering a look of what he believes gratitude, the woman speaks to him about what she knows of the fair. “Mostly, it’s a celebration of being able to trade amongst the mountain folk and valley dwellers and wanderers such as me. Preserves are the hot ticket this year, that, and pickled eggs. There’s a big field for grazing which has a creek running through it. So, basically, the campground is out in the middle of nowhere is what I believe is what used to be said about such places.” What follows after, is a click of her tongue that has the mule ripping a flower from its green stalk. “Chester likes the taste of dandelion,” she says to him and catching a glimmer of a smile upon her face, he looks along the road lined with mile high trees. Thinking that the woman and her mule will weigh against his freedom to roam alone, a delicate snap vibrates to where he envisions a thought and not liking what he sees in his head, slows his step in staying aside the woman and the mule named Chester.

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